


as the heat leaves my body, I yet feel alive

by Mallory_Clayborne, trainwhistlesatnight



Series: necromancy is a dangerous art [2]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: (? depends on how you'd classify Craven wearing lingerie), Crossdressing, Dom Nathanial, Feminization, Humiliation, I mean it's better than the last one about the necromancers so, Lingerie, M/M, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Piss kink, Watersports, Wetting, appropriate aftercare, sub Vandameer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21486355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallory_Clayborne/pseuds/Mallory_Clayborne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwhistlesatnight/pseuds/trainwhistlesatnight
Summary: The Crypt is cold, and it is always cold, unless those in it find a way to fight it off. There are those more common, such as fire, but then, one could always resort to those less used.The Clerics have an arrangement, and they use it. Set in the same universe as my fic 'don't call me a necrophilliac, because this can't be love', although whether it is before or after is up in the air. I'm not sure it really matters.A... Qraven(?) PWP. This time, 5000 words of sex.
Relationships: Nathanial Quiver/Vandameer Craven
Series: necromancy is a dangerous art [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548721
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	as the heat leaves my body, I yet feel alive

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAND Guess who’s back with one of his WORST kinks!!! But it’s all good. My fantastic/awful coconspirator was Train, go check him out - he's linked as the cocreator. it was a pleasure screaming at you about this over Discord. Future collabs in the future, perhaps?
> 
> I cannot stress enough this fic has grown adult men pissing on each other for sex reasons. If you don't get that by now, there's no hope. You're screwed. Enjoy!

By God, it was cold in the corridors of the Temple today. Even the torches embedded in the walls (which were kept for tradition, even though they had electricity down here these days) looked as if their flames were going to go out. Craven hurried along, his arms tucked inside his sleeves to try and keep his hands warm, returning any respectful nods from the higher-ranking members of the Order still out of their rooms at this time of the evening. He ignored the desire to go to the bathroom before meeting Quiver, and continued. Quiver’s bedroom was at the end of a dimly-lit section of hallway, and when Craven reached the door, he knocked, four times, two long, two short, and he heard a chair scrape back from inside. Quiver opened the door, stood there in a long-sleeved black T-shirt, black sweatpants and black plimsolls, and stepped aside to allow Craven in. The bedroom was warmer than the corridor by quite a margin, and Quiver pushed the door shut and locked it behind Craven, keeping the warm air in.

“You’re late,” Quiver said. Craven huffed, and sat in the chair Quiver had been in, facing the desk. Quiver said nothing.  
“I was with the High Priest, which is of course, more important.” He turned his head to look at Quiver.  
“One supposes,” Quiver replied, and he crossed the room to a small table in the corner. There was a large glass bottle of a clear liquid, and two highball glasses next to it, and he filled both glasses to the top, bringing them both back into the centre of the room and handing one to Craven, who sniffed it. It was sparkling, and smelled sweet and floral.  
“Elderflower pressé,” Quiver answered to the unvocalised question. They started their drinks in silence, Craven beginning to warm up from the outside in, and Quiver closed a book and slotted away some papers sat on his desk. 

When Quiver was satisfied with how tidy it was, he sat down on his bed, and watched Craven intensely. Craven resisted the urge to shudder under Quiver’s gaze.  
“What?”  
“You met with the High Priest alone?” Quiver enquired, still keeping his eyes on Craven.  
“Yes, I did. He wished to gather my opinions on some issues pertaining to the acolytes.” Craven wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw the hint of a smirk from Quiver. His voice was softer when he spoke again, but it carried just as easily in the silent room.  
“And you behaved for the entire encounter?” Craven felt his breath catch slightly, but didn’t let it show and kept himself calm. They were starting, then, he supposed. Fine by him.  
“What do you mean by that, exactly?” This time, Quiver definitely smirked, if only for a split second.  
“You know precisely what I mean. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Craven.”  
“Do elaborate,” Craven replied, a slight tightness beginning to form in his stomach from anticipation. He’d been waiting for days, staying relatively calm, and now the moment was here, it was getting to be rather a lot very quickly. He needed to piss.

Quiver stood, and placed his glass on his bedside table, now but a quarter of his drink left. He stood close to Craven, and leant against his desk, looking down at the younger Cleric. Craven ignored him, and sipped at his own drink.  
“For one, playing dumb doesn’t suit you,” Quiver began, and a tendril of shadow began to creep out slowly from his sleeve in Craven’s general direction, “because you’re dumb enough anyway, aren’t you?” Craven clenched his jaw, but said nothing.  
“And secondly,” Quiver continued, the thin tendril of darkness reaching Craven’s neck and slipping past the hem of his robes, down towards his chest, “I mean the dirty little secret you’ve spent today hiding. Now, we are far from Catholic, but perhaps confessing would do you good, hmm?” Craven swallowed the small lump rising in his throat, and glared up at Quiver, who was looking at him impassively. He pointedly ignored the coldness that was roaming over his chest, occasionally lingering on fabric. 

“You think I keep untoward secrets from the High Priest? Perhaps you and Wreath may, but I would never dream of it.”  
“Lie,” replied Quiver instantly, the shadow underneath Craven’s robe growing thicker and pressing harder against Craven’s skin, still catching occasionally on fabric. Craven felt a little heat rise in his cheeks.  
“I am not lying, and don’t you dare take that tone-” Quiver stepped forward suddenly and Craven stopped talking, mildly startled. Another few tendrils emerged from Quiver’s cuff and plunged straight under Craven’s robe, roaming around, dipping lower onto Craven’s stomach, and Craven couldn’t help but shiver at their coldness.  
“Like I said,” Quiver said, “dumb. And a pathetic attempt at a rebuttal. Stand up.” Craven narrowed his eyes at Quiver, and ignored the instruction, and was intensely shocked when Quiver’s hand was suddenly in his hair, pulling on it sharply, forcing Craven to stand to alleviate the pain. The shadows under his robe continued, now able to reach around to his back and even lower, the very tip of the thickest tendril reaching to his ass and then skittering down the back of his thigh. The tight excitement in Craven’s stomach intensified, and he felt the first serious pang of arousal he’d had today in Quiver’s presence. Quiver stepped closer to him, and they were now mere inches apart, but with the tightness of the hand in his hair Craven couldn’t look up to meet Quiver’s eyes. 

“Now,” Quiver said, low and quiet, “as I said. Why don’t you confess what you’ve done today, you filthy little boy?” Craven almost gasped, but managed to stop himself. The hand in his hair loosened, and he looked up, but it remained gently looped into his hair as a threat. He swallowed, but this time the lump didn’t go away so easily. He managed, just about, to keep his voice completely even.  
“I have done nothing but my job, Cleric.” Quiver’s eyes hardened, and he pushed Craven away, a couple of strands of Craven’s hair being tugged out from the force, and Craven winced, stumbled, but managed to get a hand on the back of the chair to stop himself from falling over. The shadows had retracted towards Quiver, but they hung in the air rather than retracting completely.  
“And you continue to lie. No matter. Do you know how confessions are usually gleamed from unwilling participants, Vandameer?” Craven said nothing.  
“Torture.” Quiver’s shadows darted back towards Craven, but this time there were more and they were much more aggressive, crashing into Craven’s body and he was forced to step backwards, again and again until they were pinning him against the wall. It was taking him a lot of self-control not to instinctively let his own shadows fight back, but he kept them in his amulet (lest he cause himself more trouble) as Quiver’s darkness held him back, and began to slip under his robes again, roaming freely across his body now. Quiver picked up Craven’s glass from the desk, and walked over to him. He held the glass to Craven’s lips and tilted it.

Craven was forced to drink quickly if he didn’t want the liquid to spill, so he did, his throat working quickly as he swallowed over and over. Quiver watched as Craven’s Adam’s apple bob, and he had to admit, it was a very attractive sight. When the glass was empty, Quiver used an extra shadow to take it back to the table in the corner, and kept himself close to Craven. Craven was beginning to feel cold, now, with so many shadows under his robes on his skin, and all he had under his robes…

Well.

“Torture?” Craven asked, finally finding his somewhat shaky voice, and Quiver’s hands went to the back of his neck, and began undoing the clasp of his amulet. Craven bit his lip.  
“Indeed. A tradition carried through the millenia, used to break even the most resilient of men.” Quiver took a final step forwards, and now his body was flush against Craven’s. He gently tilted his head down, and let his lips touch Craven’s ear. The smaller Cleric shivered. Quiver’s voice was barely more than a breath.  
“So against your pathetic self, I imagine it shan’t be much of a challenge at all.” Quiver smiled and Craven felt it, before the shadows under his robes pulsated and expanded, straining outwards against Craven’s robes.  
“Don’t destroy them!”  
“Quiet,” was all Quiver said in response, and Craven’s eyes widened as Quiver stepped backwards, keeping the shadows roaming, tossing Craven’s amulet across the room so it landed on the bed with a soft thud. There was silence for perhaps a minute as the shadows under Craven’s robes fondled him, only lightly gracing over his nipples, instead focusing on the sides of his torso, only softly touching his ass, spending more time rubbing his thighs. He was shivering.

“Having fun?” Quiver said, and Craven looked up. Arousal was seriously beginning to cloud his mind now, and he imagined Quiver knew it. Quiver turned away and walked over to the corner of the room where the bottle of elderflower pressé was, still half full. The shadows withdrew from Craven’s body, and he relaxed a little. He rolled his shoulders, and watched as Quiver poured out another glass. He brought it over to where Craven was still leant against the wall, and Craven reached out to take it. Quiver tutted, and held the glass a little further back.  
“First things first. Remove your robes.” Craven blinked, and he felt tears spring to his eyes. He refused, point blank refused, to let the fall. He stood still. Quiver smiled.  
“Take them off, Vandameer.” Craven let the tears in his eyes fade, and took what he had the feeling may well be one of his last breaths of defiance.  
“Make me.”

Quiver raised his free hand and brought it down sharply. Blunt shadows smacked into Craven’s shoulders, sending him thudding to his knees, letting out a cry of pain at the contact with the hard floor. He tried to stand up again but the shadows kept him knelt, and even as he fought he felt them creeping along his back and exerting more pressure, forcing him onto all fours. The pressure relaxed a little, but he didn’t try and get up. He lifted his head to look up at Quiver and was met with a shadow on the back of his neck, pushing his head back down. He gritted his teeth as the shadows wrapped around him, keeping him pinned to the floor, but more importantly squeezing around his middle, pressing on his abdomen. He really, really needed to piss, although he did suppose that was half the point. His desperation, and the residual ache from being thrown to the ground, made something buzz in his mind. He was beginning to approach ‘really horny’, and he was still fully clothed.

Quiver really was a slick bastard when it came to all this. Perhaps moreso than even Wreath.

“Now,” came Quiver’s voice, dragging Craven out of his own thoughts, “have you decided to behave? I’ll give you your drink if you do,” and Quiver bent, placing the glass on the floor only a few inches away from the immobilised Craven, “and you know how much better it will be if you drink that.” Craven stifled a whimper. He stayed still for perhaps another thirty seconds, before picking up his right arm. The shadows holding him down acquiesced and retreated, and when he moved his left arm he found the same, so he knelt up and looked at Quiver. He looked utterly impassive, sipping his own drink - Craven hadn’t even noticed him fetch it - and watching as Craven stood, picking up the glass as he did. Quiver’s shadows were obeying him effortlessly. Craven swallowed thickly, and reassured himself internally, like always, that this was a secret, it was what they both wanted, it was all okay, so he took three large gulps from his glass before setting it back on the ground, and with a shuddering breath he began to remove his robes, pushing off his boots and socks before he did so.

Quiver himself, of course, was hardly immune to the situation. He may have had such a reputation as the quietest Cleric, the more introspective of Tenebrae’s immediate lapdogs, but he was still human, and he felt his mouth grow slightly dry as, with a soft blush on his face, Craven began to strip. He’d been anticipating this for days, and he sipped at his drink to quieten his growing excitement. After all, he didn’t want to break character, not when he was enjoying this so thoroughly. When he settled his gaze upon Craven again, he had indeed taken off his robe, and his blush was absolutely furious. It had been days, now, since he’d given Craven the gift he was left wearing - opening the bag, Craven had nearly cried, because Quiver had always known him to be such a crybaby when it came to this sort of thing - and Quiver inwardly congratulated himself on his good taste. His dick twitched as he let his gaze roam over Craven’s close-to-naked body, only shielded by two separate pieces of elegant, feminine, cotton candy pink lace. One, a bralette, translucent flowers across Craven’s chest; and he had no breasts to be contained, but bless his heart (thought Quiver with a slight smirk), he’d still put it on. Such a cute little boy. And the panties, a matching pattern with the top, ever-so-slightly distorted over his half-hard dick. It was adorable. Craven would probably hate himself in the morning.

No matter. Quiver would be there if necessary.

“Turn around, and finish your drink,” Quiver was moderately surprised to find himself instructing. He’d half expected a compliment to be the first thing he said, but instead, a command, and Craven, with a noise that was somewhat like a sob, did indeed turn, although he brought both of his hands up to press against his mouth in embarrassment. However, finishing his drink was another task. He’d placed it back on the ground, earlier, and to get it would force him to bend over. He felt the heat in his face as he blushed worse than before, thankful Quiver couldn’t see. He reached one hand towards to the floor, but it was useless. He would have to bend almost double to get his glass. He sobbed. Quiver gave a very gentle noise of derision, and Craven shivered. And then, slowly, apprehensively, he bent at the waist, reaching for his glass, stretching his arm out to reach it.  
“And I’m sure you enjoy your new clothing, don’t you, Vandameer?” Craven froze, still doubled over, and he suddenly realised the pressure this put on his bladder. He made a soft noise of discomfort, and Quiver laughed, actually laughed, audibly and out loud. Quiver had, of course, a glorious view of Craven’s ass, and he absently squeezed his own dick through his sweatpants while he watched on. Craven’s cheeks burned impossibly hotter, and he took his glass before quickly straightening up. Quiver watched on over his shoulder as Craven drank the rest of the glass, taking large gulps. When he finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and put the glass on the floor nearby as quickly as he could, aiming to spend as little time bent over as possible. He stood up once more, feeling the sudden intake of liquid moving slightly in his stomach. He was just waiting for it to pass through him.

Quiver stepped closer, and yet closer again, until his body was touching Craven’s, the soft front of his pyjamas against Craven’s skin. He dipped his head to the side, moving so his lips were close to Craven’s ear.  
“Such a cute little boy,” Quiver whispered, and Craven couldn’t help it, he whimpered. Quiver smiled, finally feeling fully relaxed into his role, and moved his arms to encircle Craven’s lower waist, pressing both his hands into Craven’s bladder. Craven whimpered, and his whole body slackened slightly into Quiver, before he shuddered rather violently. He kept ‘hugging’ Craven like this, occasionally moving one of his hands in a circle, applying pressure, keeping Craven squirming in his arms. Whenever Craven pushed back, of course, it intensified Quiver’s own need, and he himself didn’t think he could last - in either sense - much longer.

He was doing better than Craven, though. The arrangement was quite long-standing, what with liasons between each of the Clerics, and Vandameer had always taken to a particular role. Quiver moved one of his hands lower and squeezed Craven’s dick through his panties, and for a second of silence, it was like Craven’s brain was disconnected from his body, but then he realised, and he made a strangled noise of pleasure.  
“Are you going to tell me the truth, now?” Quiver asked, keeping his voice as cold as he could. Craven fidgeted in his arms.  
“I…” Craven let out a noise that was remarkably like a sob before he continued, “I’ve been dressed like this all day. Like you told me. I haven’t been to the toilet all day. Like you t-told me.”  
“And you met with the High Priest like this?” Craven whimpered and nodded quickly. His weight was now almost entirely on Quiver, who still had one hand massaging his abdomen on top of his full, full bladder, and one hand groping his dick, occasionally dropping a little lower to squeeze his balls, still on top of the damn lace. Suddenly, Quiver stilled his hands, and Craven whined.  
“I had to! I couldn’t say no to him, but you, you m-made me like this!” Quiver smiled, and gently bit down on the very top of Craven’s ear, drawing a very soft noise of pain from him.  
“Go into the bathroom,” Quiver said, and Craven’s eyes, his pupils blown wide, didn’t bother to disobey.

Calling Quiver’s ensuite a ‘bathroom’ was a little disingenuous: it was a wetroom, L-shaped, the sink and toilet in one end, and the other end taken up by the shower, which hung from the ceiling. When Quiver came in, now barefoot, Craven was stood underneath the shower, though it was, for now, off. Quiver smiled at him, but Craven felt it was rather like the smile a lion gave a gazelle before it pounced. Craven’s heart fluttered, his dick twitched, and his bladder ached.  
“Kneel down, boy,” ordered Quiver, and Craven didn’t argue, arousal in his blood and tears prickling at his eyes. He knew what was going to happen, and he was utterly powerless to stop it.

And God, did he love it, in the worst kind of way.

Quiver stepped closer to Craven, pulling the bathroom door shut, and glanced around the room before settling his gaze on Craven before him. He felt another pang of arousal, but let it go, didn’t cling onto it, didn’t let himself get fully hard. He couldn’t. He tucked a thumb beneath the band of his sweatpants, and looked down at Craven. He was knelt, of course, half-hard and wearing his adorable lingerie, a beautiful picture with his eyes slightly glassy and his lips slightly parted. Quiver cleared his throat, and Craven looked up. He was squirming slightly, even on his knees.  
“Colour, Vandameer?”  
“O-oh, oh, green.”  
“Excellent. Now,” Quiver’s voice took on a playful, yet sinister lilt. Craven whimpered, and Quiver smirked. “whilst I know exactly what you want - and you needn’t give me that look, you little slut - I’m barely convinced you deserve it.” Craven’s eyes widened. In a normal situation, he would have scowled, but as it was, he looked delightfully scared.  
“How many times did you lie to me earlier, boy?” Quiver asked. His tone was light, but Craven knew the ramifications of the question.  
“I suppose… I told you I was doing nothing untoward. But I was dressed like…”  
“Like what?” Craven let out a sob before he continued.  
“L-like a slut,” he replied, his voice breathy, gazing up at Quiver. Quiver smiled at him pityingly.  
“And it seems you can behave sometimes. So, why don’t you beg for what we both know you want?” Craven’s blush returned, an angry red across his pale cheeks, and he looked at the floor. He mumbled something utterly incoherent. Quiver gestured with one hand, and shadows swept across the room, wrenching Craven’s head up, forcing him to look at Quiver. Craven moaned as several tendrils snaked around his dick, no substance, yet still sensation.  
“Don’t you dare be insolent,” Quiver hissed, and Craven moaned again, the shadows abandoning his dick and moving to his asshole, curious, as if they has a mind of their own.

“Please,” Craven managed to blurt out, “I want. I want… I need you to…” he ducked his head again, and Quiver stormed forwards, pushing a hand into Craven’s hair just like earlier, forcing his head back and making him cry out.  
“What did I just tell you?” Quiver admonished, his voice quiet and dangerous. Craven made a noise like a kicked puppy and looked up at Quiver. His voice was quiet, and cracked as he spoke.  
“Please. I want you t-to piss on me. Please.” Quiver stepped back and one of Craven’s hands immediately went to rub his scalp.  
“You ought to ask more nicely than that, given your insolence earlier.” Craven shuddered again, and gazed up at Quiver with a look of a million emotions in his eyes. He breathed a sob before he spoke.  
“Please. S-sir. I want you to piss on me. I want… I want you to make me dirty. And I shouldn’t have lied to you earlier, and I’m sorry. Please, piss on me?” Quiver sighed, then smiled. It was still predatory.  
“Was that really all that difficult?” Craven shook his head, but stayed quiet. He watched on, his eyes still glassy as Quiver pushed his sweatpants from his hips to his thighs, enough space to take his mostly flaccid dick in hand, and Craven whined when he saw it. Quiver smirked. Craven said nothing else.

Craven closed his eyes and made sure to keep his mouth shut, yet a sob still racked his body when hot liquid hit him. Quiver’s piss ran down his face, dripped onto his chest, and he made a tortured noise in his throat when it made contact with his dick, running down his body and seeping through his panties, hotter than the room, and he couldn’t help himself as he spurted his own piss through the lace onto the floor of the bathroom. However, Quiver, who Craven had expected to be totally lost in the moment, noticed, and came the closest he had so far to actually shouting. There was venom in his voice.  
“Do not even think about pissing yourself, pathetic little slut, or I swear to God you will regret it.”  
Craven whimpered and stayed as still as he could while Quiver pissed on him, arousal and disgust and humiliation coiling in his stomach, and when Quiver finally stopped, Craven shook his head like a dog, and licked his lips, wincing at the taste of the few drops lingering there. He gazed up at Quiver, who looked as if he was in a daydream. After a few seconds, Quiver seemed to snap back to reality, and he looked down at Craven, meeting his eyes.

“Please,” Craven said, his voice utterly unlike his own, soft and broken. 

Quiver groaned under his breath, and stepped closer to Craven, who was almost level with his dick.  
“Suck, and perhaps I’ll grant you… release.” Craven whined loudly, lost in the moment, and rose up as much as he could in his kneeling position, taking the very tip of Quiver’s dick into his mouth, letting his gag reflex take over for a second and fill his mouth with saliva to dilute the small amount of piss he could still taste. He didn’t try and take Quiver deep, just focused on the part of his dick he could comfortably reach, and he shook lightly as he brought his hands up, one wrapping around Quiver’s shaft and the other cupping his balls, doing the best he damn well could to - well, and he blushed again at the concept - pleasure the man who’d done this to him. Quiver moaned softly, and Craven would have smiled if he weren’t so occupied, but any further arousal of his own was blocked by the goddamn desperation. He was so horny, and yet he needed to piss so badly, and he was covered in Quiver’s piss and the scent was fucking embarrassing and yet he wanted it and god, it was all so much.

Quiver moaned again, louder, and fisted a hand into Craven’s hair. Craven sobbed and his whole body shook, a hand going very suddenly to his dick and squeezing, tight. He pulled off of Quiver’s dick, pain blossoming as he wrenched his hair from Quiver’s grip  
“Please, fuck, please, I’m going to wet myself, please, tell me I can piss?” Quiver sighed.  
“That’s really a rather demanding way to put it for a desperately horny, squirming little boy in your position. So,” and Quiver smiled, “no. Did I tell you to stop?” Craven wailed, there was no better way to describe the noise he made, but he resumed sucking Quiver’s dick, squirming much more violently, gripping onto his own dick through his adorable panties to try and stop him from wetting himself. And yet, as tears pricked at his eyes and arousal took over his very being, Craven just couldn’t help himself.

It was so fucking hot, and so fucking wet, as he moaned in relief and pleasure as finally he let go, a strong stream of piss pooling underneath where he knelt, the panties trapping some of it and ensuring he soaked himself with it, his dick covered in his own piss and precum and Quiver’s piss too. Quiver’s dick was still in his mouth, but he just let it sit there, didn’t suck, as he closed his eyes and drank in the feeling of emptying himself. But of course, when it was over, shame washed over him, moreso that he’d disobeyed than what he’d actually done, and he began sucking Quiver’s dick again with a renewed vigour, willing Quiver not to punish him for it.

Wishful thinking.

Quiver regrasped Craven’s hair, holding him tighter, dictating the pace at which Craven bobbed shallowly on his dick. He heard Craven make a stifled choking noise and ignored him (their non-verbal safeword, of course, in the back of his mind, though he doubted it would be used), kept forcing him to suck harder and deeper. Craven was crying, and still squirming. It was fucking beautiful.  
“What is it you want now, boy?” Quiver asked, his voice a little strained. Craven pulled backwards so he could talk.  
“Please, I want to touch myself, Sir.” Quiver rolled his eyes, and pulled Craven back forward. Craven whined but resumed sucking, making soft noises as he did so. Quiver had very nearly zoned out, and was damn close to orgasm, when he refocused his attention on Craven, who was palming himself through his underwear. He tugged as sharply as he could on Craven’s hair, and it made him half-fall backwards and wail with the pain.  
“And did I say you could touch yourself?” Craven’s eyes were sparkling, and his cheeks were wet with tears and piss.  
“I’m… I’m sorry, Sir, I just… I just can’t help it,” Craven replied, trying to look at the floor but finding his head kept back by Quiver’s shadows.  
“Of course you can’t, you can’t control your dick. Tell me, you’ve made yourself cum just from thinking dirty thoughts before, haven’t you? You don’t even need to touch your peverted little cock, do you?” Craven whimpered and fresh tears sprang to his eyes. Quiver smiled at the sight.

“Finish me, and perhaps I’ll let you orgasm. That’s more than fair, given your bratty insolence, Vandameer.” Craven nodded, and for the third time, resumed sucking Quiver’s dick, as well as he could manage, rubbing his tongue over Quiver’s frenulum and using his hands to reach further than his mouth could. Craven sobbed when Quiver warned him that he was about to orgasm, and yet Craven still made a noise of shock when hot cum filled his mouth, keeping stock still until Quiver was completely done, and he resisted the urge to spit it out and swallowed with a shudder. His eyes were wide and and his lips pink and swollen when he looked up at Quiver, who looked halfway to passing out, but steadied himself on the towel rack and removed his shirt and armband, the lingering shadows in the room disappearing into it as he placed it on the shelf by the door. He pushed his sweatpants off the rest of the way, and threw them under the sink next to his shirt before sinking to his knees facing Craven, centimetres from the piss that Craven himself was knelt in.

“Touch yourself,” said Quiver. Craven nodded and began to stroke himself, resisting the urge to whimper with every movement, perhaps fifteen strokes from orgasm, and then Quiver’s hand wrapped around his own, following his movements, keeping his grip tight. A few tears fell free of Craven’s eyes and dripped into the puddle he was knelt in. Quiver looped his free hand around Craven’s shoulders and pulled him closer, until Craven’s head was leant forwards onto Quiver’s shoulder, his knees not moving from where he was. They continued jerking Craven together, and he whimpered as he got closer and closer to cumming. He mumbled something incoherent into Quiver’s shoulder.  
“Lift your head up, boy. Use your words,” Quiver coaxed. Craven did, shakily, his vision swimming and his voice weak and quaking.  
“Please. Please… I can’t. Please…” Quiver smiled, and pulled Craven back to rest on him, and it was mere seconds until Craven came with a loud cry, shaking violently and half collapsing onto Quiver when he did. A small amount of cum reached Quiver’s thighs, but most of it got onto the floor, a good amount adding to the puddle Craven was knelt in. 

The two sat like that for a few minutes, Craven occasionally shivering, and then Quiver pushed him up gently, helping him to his feet and pulling him out of the way of where the water would fall. Quiver turned the shower on, and it was ten seconds until it was warm and he encouraged Craven to step under the spray. Craven leant against the wall, letting the hot water run over the front of his body, and Quiver stayed half a foot away under the main flow of the water. Craven gently lowered himself until he was sat down, his back against the wall, his eyes closed, and Quiver carefully adjusted the angle of the water so it was directed a little more towards Craven, and he sat next to Craven, taking his left hand and holding it between both of his own.

Craven let out a choked sob and a low keen, the last of the feelings he couldn’t process well from the scene, and he slumped sideways, resting against Quiver. He was crying, although not sobbing.  
“Vandameer,” Quiver said, soft, none of the coldness from earlier. Craven took a deep, deep breath and then looked up at Quiver.  
“You promise?” Quiver nodded in response.  
“I promise. I shan’t even tell Wreath until you are comfortable.” Craven thought for a minute, and then decided he was satisfied with the answer, and rested back against Quiver. It was a long time they sat together, under the warm water, in the warm ensuite, in the warm bedroom that was staving off the coldness and the loneliness in the rest of the Temple, warmer than the burning insults, warmer than the burning piss, warmer than the burning blush that had flooded Craven’s blood. There was a difference, he thought vaguely, under the warm water, between hot and warm, even if they did frequently coexist. Even if everyone else in this Temple thought of them as the same.


End file.
